I'm a bit of a fan of Victoria Pendleton. Anyone who has the dedication to put in the kind of training that wins her three Olympic gold medals is OK by me. I've always thought that she wears her heart on her sleeve more than most athletes seem to, but I never saw that as a particularly bad thing - in fact I'm usually delighted when an athlete actually says what they think rather than trotting out a load of cliches.

Because of all this, I was really looking forward to reading her autobiography, and I must say that there were lots of things I enjoyed about it. More than many sporting autobiographies, it gives a strong sense of the amount of effort and dedication that has to be put into reaching the top of any sport. I also wasn't particularly surprised to find that she's had some serious psychological problems along the way - sitting in her room self-harming at a training academy probably being the low point - and I really felt for her at times, as well as being impressed that she's overcome an obviously fragile psyche to reach the top of her sport.

However, by the end of the book I just wanted her to stop whinging. I'm not sure whether it's her real attitude, or whether it's the way the book's been ghost-written, but the strong message coming from Pendleton on every page was that none of her (not inconsiderable) problems were her own fault. She seems to think of herself as a real victim, and as an outsider looking at the success she's had and the huge opportunities she's been given in life, I really wanted her to acknowledge how lucky she is and stop complaining about what she thinks other people think of her.

It's never happened to me before, but reading this athlete's autobiography left me thinking less of her than before I read it, and I'm really sad about that. ( )